Negotiations
by Alice Day
Summary: With the departure of Grissom, Sara and Warrick, the writers need a new focus of Unresolved Sexual Tension on the show, so they ask for volunteers. Mwahahahahahaha...


With the departure of Grissom, Sara and Warrick, the writers need a new focus of Unresolved Sexual Tension on the show, so they ask for volunteers. Mwahahahahahaha...

You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, there would be bowls of chocolate-covered coffee beans _everywhere_ on set.

* * *

Negotiations  
by Alice Day

* * *

"Okay, thank you all for coming," the head writer said, squinting into the slanting LA sunlight. The regular cast members sat in their usual spaces near the head of the table, with the recurring actors grabbing available seats in the middle. The writing team clustered at the far end of the table passing notes to each other, digging into the communal bowl of chocolate-covered coffee beans, and giggling at odd moments. "As you all know, with the departure of Grissom and Sara and the death of Warrick, we've lost two of our main sources for UST, and quite frankly the fan boards are screaming for blood."

"UST?" the newest cast member asked the strawberry blonde sitting next to him.

"Unresolved sexual tension," she explained. "Although I think it got pretty damn resolved a couple of times."

"Ahem." The head writer cleared his throat. "And as we're all well aware that the viewers aren't watching us for our scientific accuracy--"

The boos rebounded in the room.

"Yes, well, we need to give them something to keep them entertained and away from the torches and pitchforks. As such, we're throwing open the floor to suggestions."

The pretty young blonde, aware of her recent addition to the credits, hesitantly raised her hand. "Um, suggestions of what, exactly?"

"Which characters should develop, you know, a certain, um, relationship with, you know, another character," the head writer coughed, turning red.

"Who's gonna be boffing whom," another writer summarized, popping another chocolate-covered coffee bean in his mouth.

"Oh. _Oh._" She gazed around the table, evaluating the possibilities for more screen time. _Too geeky, too short, too old, I'm not kissing her, okay, he's possible, ooh, he's seriously hot..._

"Look I don't care what they're writing on the fan boards," the Texan said. "I am not getting in a liplock with _him_," he pointed at his colleague across the table.

The brown-eyed actor batted his eyelashes playfully. "Oh, you know you want a taste of this, Tex."

"Only in my nightmares."

"Ya know, he's not the only Texan on the show," the lanky man with the graying hair harrumphed. "Anyway, I've been doing some research, and Wedges fanfic is really gaining quite the foothold in the hearts of fans--"

"Dream on," said a brown-eyed brunette, leafing through the latest edition of Variety.

He glared at his erstwhile on-screen romantic interest. "Hey, it means more screen time for you, too."

"Not if you insist on eating garlic hummus for lunch."

"It's good for you!"

"Well, look, I think that we should be showing a good example for the over-40 crowd," the strawberry blonde said, flinging back a lock of striped hair. "I mean, just because there's snow on the mountain doesn't mean the fire's out."

As one, the group looked towards the actor wearing a hockey jersey and perusing a copy of _À la recherche du temps perdu_. He looked up over his reading glasses. "What?"

"Oh, right -- because flirting with Grissom AND Warrick, plus nailing that guy from the X-Files wasn't enough for you," the brunette snarked.

The strawberry blonde frowned. "Which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Which guy from the X-Files? I nailed two of them."

The brunette thought. "Which ones?"

"Krychek and the guy who ate human fat."

"Ew!"

"Tell me about it."

"Excuse me, but why can't I ever get any on-screen action?" the bearded actor said, banging his crutch on the floor for emphasis. "Married couples can be quite hot, under the right circumstances."

The head writer gave him a dubious look. "In the morgue?"

"Um. Okay, I see your point."

"What about the lab rats?" one of the recurring actors said hopefully.

The head writer gave him a dirty look, rubbing a remembered ache above his kidney. "Be grateful you get any screen time at all, Mr. 'Wanna see me do a Power Rangers stunt?'"

"Aw, man. I _said_ I was sorry."

"I'd be willing to do some on-screen making out," the blonde said shyly.

"Hmm? Oh, no no no -- there's no kissing on the show unless the characters are leaving," the head writer said hurriedly, waving his hands. "We'd write an angst-laden storyline where you would realize you've fallen in love with someone over a decomp case. He'd remind you of your dead fiancé from back east, and you would remind him of his unrequited passion for Sara."

"Or Sophia," another writer said through a mouthful of coffee beans.

"Or Lady Heather," a third writer piped up. "Jeez, can we _please_ bring her back? She was seriously hot."

The head writer glared at his staff, then turned back to the actress. "You'd get this close to falling into each other's arms, and then flee like startled fawns at the last minute--"

Bemused, the newest cast member whispered, "He used to write romance novels, didn't he?"

"How'd you guess?" the strawberry blonde replied.

"--only to find yourselves drawn together again while processing a murder at Cirque du Soleil," the head writer concluded.

"Uh, boss," one of the writers said, raising her hand. "We already did that one."

"Oh. Carnival?"

"That too."

"Furry convention?"

"Season four."

"Dammit!"

The doors slammed open and a breathless figure wearing a Chicago Cubs windbreaker burst into the room, followed by two burly men in studio guard uniforms. "No! You can't have anyone else endure a painfully drawn out courtship!" he screamed. "That's my legacy, dammit! Mine mine mine!"

The head writer pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Security, please escort our esteemed executive producer to the parking lot. And bring the dart gun this time."

The studio guards grabbed the man's arms. "Come on, Billy."

"Noooooo!"

"That's what happens when you leave to 'rediscover your artistic direction'," one of the writers catcalled after them.

"Look, why can't we just have some on-screen action for once?" the Texan pleaded. "I'm begging you, man -- _please_ give those fic writers something to watch so they'll stop making up their own kinky stuff."

"Okay, fine," the head writer snapped. "What the hell -- it's probably our last season anyway. Let's pull a "Friends," shall we? We'll team up Brass and Catherine, Riley and Greg, and Hodges and Wendy, how about that?"

"Yes!" the blonde said, leaning across the table and giving the brown-eyed actor a high five.

"I swear to God, Sprout Boy, you floss before our scenes," the brunette said.

The strawberry blonde looked across at her assigned partner. "Yo, professor?"

He looked up from the book, his gaze distant. "The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes," he murmured.

They all stared at him.

He cleared his throat. "Um, I mean, yeah, sure, why not?"

"Hey, what about _me_?" the Texan yelled.

The head writer grew an evil smile. His favorite niece was very proud of her slashfic. "Oh, I think we can give you an Emmy-worthy romance, big guy," he purred. "One where Nick has to save a Lab Rat from a serial killer."

The Texan gave the bespectacled brunette near the middle of the table a thumbs up. "Sounds good so far," he agreed.

"And in doing so, they realize that the long-smoldering attraction between them can no longer be denied."

"Great!"

"And they fall into each other's arms during a thunderstorm, consummating their love."

"Hot damn!"

"And that's when Nick and Archie discover they just can't quit each other."

The Texan's head snapped around, and he stared at the ex-Power Ranger in horror. "_What?_ NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The head writer popped a chocolate coffee bean into his mouth and smiled at the now-sobbing actor. _That's what happens when you mess with The Powers That Be, you schmuck._


End file.
